


Triune's Exegesis

by PiWright



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, Magic: The Gathering (Card Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece, Ancient Greece, D&D, Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, Dungeons & Dragons References, Gen, Inspired by Dungeons & Dragons, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Theros, Theros (Magic: The Gathering), Theros Beyond Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:34:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27830833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PiWright/pseuds/PiWright
Summary: An original fantasy work set in the Dungeons and Dragons and Magic the Gathering setting of Theros. This ongoing story tells of a trio—a human ranger, elf arcane trickster, and leonin paladin—from Faerûn who awake north of Meletis. Uncertain where they are or how they arrived, they will navigate Theros culture, politics, and war to discern who or what has made them into insturments and to what purpose.
Kudos: 9





	1. Genesis

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for your interest in my work. This is an ongoing original work of fiction. Feedback is encouraged and appreciated.  
> You can find me at:  
> https://twitter.com/WrightWriting  
> https://www.instagram.com/rainbowpup.a.lup/

They were in a field and stars swam in their eyes. A cosmic consciousness had brake upon them and divorced them from their corporal forms which, now regained, ached with melancholy in remembrance of their brief freedom. A leonin and an elf, with hazy eyes rose upon their legs in a viridescent grass; a man was present also.

“What foul magick wrung us to this place?” Xirabel asked, brushing dirt from off her horns.

Leobold inhaled deep, swimming his great lungs in the dewy air of the morning, and spoke with a skylit drawl, “Not ta be contradictory Bel, but Aah smell only freshness.”

“I meant not the daisies you domesticated thing,” Xirabel tartly replied, “We are absconded to some strange place.”

“N’ that same place is offa fresh scent, not foul,” Leobold replied, squaring his robust shoulders and inclining his mane.

Tugging at the curly hair surrounding her dipping horns, Xirabel wailed, “Titania! That I ever left her Seelie court! I might have better suffered fools there!”

The man had not risen. Prone and patient, he remained as discarded. His limbs limp, face gentle and unbothered. But his deep eyes, swallowed in a brazed brow which overhung his weathered face, those spitting yellow orbs probed with all the intensity of his form. There on his back he surveyed, first the crisp blue sky. He searched for the moon and fancied its silhouette. The turf around stretched out over billowing mounds and hillocks. It rolled onwards, outwards, spreading in all directions, dotted with fine trees of which he did not know their name. In a wash of greenland—there, it tinged his nose; the salt. The tip of his tongue protruded from his lips; he could taste it.

“Hark!” he cried.

“Canie, didja go hurt youself? Here let me assist ya upwahds to your feet.” Bending down Leobold scooped Canis into his soft-padded paws and with ease lifted him from the ground.

“When you two have finished this romance,” spoke Xirabel, “We should begin away, east I think.”

“Southwest,” Canis replied matter of factly as he extricated himself from Leobold’s gentle cradle. “I am unhurt, Leobold. Was merely taking my time to rise.”

“Now that you have joined us surely you can see that the land grades down to the east. It shall make easier going.”

“Yes Xira I behold. But to have a gentle journey is our least concern. We must find who inhabits these new lands,” Canis replied, “And people of any country are wont to live on the water. Southwest will take us to the ocean.

Xirabel wrinkled her tiny nose, “You are the ranger,” was all her reply.

Had they any preparation travel would not have been arduous. The land was gentle in its variation, the climate mild. But the ternion, rejoined in essence to their bodies, felt the vengeful weight of their flesh. Fatigued and without meal, they had also no water to drink. The summer clime, not too oppressive, still caused the two to sweat and the third to pant. The occasional fruit-free tree teased brief shade until they began again.

Leobold jaunted across the land in mighty strides. He was an orgiya in height, plus a pous, and scale loaded full with five talents would not have outweighed. Short tan fur covered his body while a deep brown mane, with hints of burgundy showing in sunlight, trestled about his thick neck and down his back. Leobold dressed simply; a faded white shirt hugged each side of his rolling chest and protruding gut, open in the middle and tucked into a beige skirt tied betwixt his thighs. A woven leather belt, sewed with turquoise beads, wrapped his waist off of which three pouches hung. The leonin’s one ornament of pride was a wide brimmed hat, always dutifully decorated with flowers which filled his heart with so much tranquility. A massive scutum suspended from his back was his only armament. Painted stark blue and adored with chrysiline patterns, it had been built at great cost to match the leonin’s staggering height.

The sun carried across the middle of the sky and no changes in the land seemed coming, only more grass and modest hills. But the aroma of salt grew steadily, Canis was sure. It hung in his pointed nostrils and stuck in his throat. The flavor of sea, of fish; the grainy wind which lashed the skin on a swift vessel.

“There! See that wretched creature!” Xirabel hissed.

“Hullo th—” Leobold began to exclaim before being muzzled with a firm hand from Xirabel, standing on the tips of her toes to reach.

“Do not hail him,” she spake through clenched teeth, “The horror appears a lich!”

“Pffee ooks ick en ald efferd oo ee,” Leobold mumbled.

“He does seem a shepherd,” Canis agreed as he peered from a haunch.

Xirabel, still pinching Leobold’s snout shut, whispered “See you not how horrid he appears? The flesh dangles from his skull in slimy folds. His mouth is a toothless chasm of darkness.”

“I think he is just aged,” Canis replied, “Besides, it would be stranger if, walking so long, we encountered no one at all. Hail good shepherd! How does your flock?”

Canis skirted down a small mound towards the figure. Exceedingly old, his scalp was cleaner than a newborn, though spotted with dark blotches. The wrinkles he wore were so mighty they made enormous creases and hangs of skin. He carried only a crook to guide his lambs who were taking water in a benign stream.

“My flock is constant, traveler,” the old man rasped. His naked gums slurred the words, but the enunciation did not register in Canis’s sharp ears. The ranger made instant note the apparent absence of speaking voice. The utterance not spoken from the shepherd’s throat, but more echoed as though his chest were a cavernous void ringing out ancient cries which only by chance found their way to reverberate into the world.

“It is sizeable, truly,” spoke Canis approaching the old man. He offered his right hand with casual confidence, but anxiety gripped him.

“By the by it grows larger and more unruly,” spoke the old man, giving his right hand. “The figure of your famous friend is also of a size.” He gestured towards Leobold.

“Famous? Well sir, Aah don’ know famous, though Aah’ll say tha Flourmane bakery is well regarded.”

“Elder, where are we?” Xirabel inserted abruptly.

“Not too north of the polis, reveler,” spoke the old man.

“What polis?” Xirabel asked.

“Nevermind that.” spoke Canis with a bark he had not intended. “You speak as though you know them.”

“I come to know all one way or another and so too all come to know me.”

“Shepherd we are strangers here, tell me how you know two of my party.”

“Strange indeed that you know not that Meletis, that mighty polis and port is just south of here.”

“I give you courtesy shepherd, but do not jest with me,” Canis’s black pupils glinted in the sunlight and half-grey stubble rippled upon his face.

“Girdled in swords, breast clad in boiled leather; your heart is restrained violence. It is not just your companions which I know, I see you more clearly than they.”

A tone rang through Canis’s ears. He breathed sharply through his nose and oxygen flooded his muscles, all taunt, ready. A moment, a twitch. It spanned out before him, every movement. The shoulder rolling, elbow bending, blades drawing. Blood filled his head.

“Well Aah’m sorry to admit that Aah caint place ya, sir,” Leobold announced as he slapped Canis on the back. It all receded. Canis’s breath slackened, muscles relaxed; he was present again. “Perhaps Aah once baked ya a fine pie?” Leobold asked.

“You are good humored. No, you have offered me nothing in the past, though I expect that to change now we have met.” The old man took up his crook and began to herd together his flock and start on again to a new pasture. “My advice, strangers: the reveler should hide her adornments,” he gestured to her horns, “or else be in severe peril; the Ajani will have much fanfare. Farewell.” 

“I shall engage you further, elder,” Xirabel insisted stepping forward.

Canis took her shoulder, “Let us not keep him. I’d rather he go on.”

Seeming to pay neither heed, the old man and his flock set off further into green.

“Bel, ya know Aah’d never criticize ya life choices, but it seems ya’re just too immodestly uncovered for this parts,” Leobold declared. “Here justa let me—now justa let—Bel ya ladies are too exposed it’s not decent.”

“Remove your paws from me, bawdy chrysanthemum!” Xirabel lashed, “The coger was not talking of tits.”

“He did not know you as an elf, but a ‘reveler.’” Canis was dazed.

“I am taken more often as a tiefling since these sprouted up,” Xirabel motioned at her deeping horns.

“Leobold, you are the only of your kind in Faerûn, yet he was not taken aback by such an anomaly.”

“He mistook meh for Ajohnny.” Clapping his paws atop his snout he exclaimed, “Canie! Could thar be another like me?”

Patting Leobold’s barreled chest Canis tempered him, “Do not overly hope.”

“All the same Aah should look mah best, just in case,” Leobold intoned, fluffing out his mane.

“You speculate too wildly,” Xirabel added, “We have no evidence to indicate such a thing.”

“Ya thought that shepherd was a lich.”

“His visage was as a lich! That is a manner of evidence and better than pure guesswork.”

“And he mentioned an Ahjonny too.”

“That centarian called you ‘the Ajani,’ he did not use it as an individual name,” Xirabel corrected, “Wherever we are Elves with horns are taken as something called a ‘reveler’ and those are disliked; something else resembles you and is called an Ajani.”

Xirabel paused, “Give me your hat.”

With drooping eyes Leobold gave over his crown. Xirabel, giving him back the daffodil which had adored it, tugged it over her horns. “I may look ridiculous,” she admitted, “But you could not tell me a ‘reveler.’

The trio took rest at the stream and drank from it to the music of bleating bovines as the shepherd and flock meandered away. The water was sharp and invigorating. Xirabel cupped the water in her hands and brought it to her mouth to drink. Canis knelt on the bank and drank from it. Leobold lapped at the water and doused it on his chest.

“Much further could have been asked that old man,” Xirabel complained.

“I had an ill sense of him,” responded Canis.

“Judgement is derogated without fact. We have not enough information to analyze our circumstance.”

“My instincts have not failed me yet.”

“No,” Xirabel expressed intently, “Your stalwart shield has not failed you yet.”

“Friends,” Leobold interjected, “Wherever it is we agoin Aah would justa soon we go thar now than later. Darkness shall creep soon enough and we got no camp ta make and nah food ta ate.”

“Rampant feasting has spoiled you,” Canis chided with some mirth.

Letting out a rough chuckle, “Norea feds me well, that is true.”

The land began to level and their way became easier. The gentle verdant hills gave way and opened onto a mighty inarable plain of patchy dry grass. Arriving on the gusty flat from the east, the party saw a well stamped dirt road running north-south.

Letting out a gentle sigh, Xirabel spoke to herself, “This travel shall be easier; and evening sets on.”

The accidental journey was most disruptive to Xirabel. Both disposition and constitution were bent toward study and civilization. Young with an impatience unusual in Elves, she had left the Feywild wearing a curse and feeding an impetuous desire for knowledge and power, which are the likeness of each other. The improbable fellows had sailed the Sea of Swords and the Sword Coast for years before she had attached herself to them. In the Material Plane Xirabel made a cut of experience in Baldur’s Gate, but Canis and Leobold had taken a barge up the Chionthar River as far as Iriaebor. She first acquainted with them at Candlekeep. The boys arrived from the Moonshae Isles, an expedition they held in great care, whilst she researched aged tomes. Xirabel trusted them enough for her purposes. She was confident that neither would betray her in most circumstances, their company had become so far bonded. But were the true madness of catastrophe to strike, she owed them nothing and wanted nothing back. A rapier on her hip, knives crisscrossing the studded black armor she wore, and a spellbook jealously guarded: these were her tulimate solace.

In the waning afternoon light, the displaced trio assessed the new stretch of land. Coming from the north a rough-hewn cart was being trudged southward by a too-old donkey. It’s expression alerted them before it could be eyed. The lashed pieces of wood squealed against and a loud thump was declared by an unbalanced wheel with every rotation. A man walked aside, a woman drove the cart, and two young girls sat in the open load.

“Those folks appear mighty friendly to me,” Leobold advocated optimistically.

“I could no sooner discovered how you were bred wanting instincts,” Xirabel dryly retorted, “than a man could find my—”

“Here is that option to discern more of where we are,” Canis interrupted, “To converse with them as we travel the final distance.”

“The senior was preferable to this. He had not resistance and we were far placed from a road where others might set upon us.”

“We are clad in the linaments of war and they appear as jay-folk. I suspect no trouble. You may probe them in security.”

“By your lead then,” Xirabel replied.

From far nearly out of eyesight Canis hailed the travelers, who started to be called from unawares with no others on the road.

“Who comes here?” the man shouted with feigned fierceness in his manner and a cudgel in his hand.

“Peace! Peace!” Canis cried aloud as he and the other slowly approached. “Though we readied for violence we are not set on it! We are misguided and do not intend to waylay you!”

As they emerged from the beginnings of twilight and could be seen clearly, the man’s arm dropped, as did his jaw. From the drivers’ seat the woman clasped a hand upon the man’s shoulder and looked in awe. Their transfixion might have persisted through the night, but was broken by the excited cries of their girls. Shrieking, they leapt from the rear and pelted towards the adventurers.

“See that you hulking dandelion?” Xirabel cried at Leobold as she drew forth her rapier, “I told you they were dangerous.”

“Hullo thar youngins,” Leobold bellowed strolling forward, “Mah name is—”

“Ajani! Ajani!” the girls cried in unison as they reached Leobold.

“—well no, Aah’m unacquainted with this Ajohnny fellah—”

“Bless us! Make the sun shine! Create fire in your hands!” These things they exclaimed as they grabbed about the leonin’s knees.

“I beseech your pardon!” the woman called as she scrambled from the cart. “Children! Show due courtesy!” The woman hesitated a moment, then taking a necklace of woven thread bearing a wooden pendant from around her neck, she held it outwards, “Please take this token of our affection.”

“This is intolerable,” Xirabel whispered to Canis as she sheathed her rapier, “I would rather they attacked us.”

“Well Aah’ll be! This is some kind of gen’rous welcome,” Leobold exclaimed.

“Lady, how are you called?” Canis asked, “I am Canis, ranger. This is Xirabel, investigator. And his name is Leobold Flourmane.”

“We are honored to know Ajani Leobold Flourmane and to meet his squires.”

“S-squires…?” Xirabel’s eye began to twitch.

“I am Agathe. My husband—husband! bring wine!—my husband is Kleon.”

“N’ what are these scrumptious bits of biscuit called?” Leobold asked from the ground. He had plumped his great hindquarters down and held the two girls in his lap as they played with the ringlets of his mane.

“I am Hira,” one said.

“I am Vala,” the other said.

“Mah Aah am in distinguished company,” Leobold laughed with a rolling pitch from deep in his throat, “Now did someon’ say thar was wine?”

“Here great one!” Kleon had led the donkey and cart off the road and produced a cask of wine from the load, “May Heliod bless us.”

As this went on and Leobold took heavy draughts, Canis rubbed his chin and whispered to Xirabel, “We are truly far afield.”

“The pseudo-lich’s vision was not so undermined as you supposed,” Xirabel responded, “Leobold must be the exact likeness of this ‘Ajani.’” Xirabel took a quick step to Canis and held her face aside his, “This is not well. If there had existed more of Leobold’s race in Faerûn we would have knowledge of it. Consider though: The Feywild, Shadowfell, or Elemental Chaos would all be devastatingly obvious were we there.”

“I mark you,” replied Canis as worry wrapped his face, “I know not of the Outer Planes. Could we have been taken so far as those?”

“Such things are arcane beyond my scope, but I do not allow that those realms of gods would so closely resemble the material plane. This must be an alien part of Toril.”

“We are fortunate then the shepherd cared nothing for our obliviousness. We cannot know how others shall act if they discern how fantastic we are. And yet we needs probe knowledge of this place.”

Xirabel pursed her lips and reflected a moment.  _ “‘Heliod bless us’? That must be their god. And Ajani are Heliod’s servants? Or at least associated. But how can we explain that we know nothing?” _

“…and so Norea and Aah found this trick with yeast,” Leobold continued.

“Ahem!” Xirabel interjected, “Honorable Ajani… Flourmane.” Xirabel thought to herself,  _ “Titania! This is excruciating.” _ She continued, “We are unacquainted with these travelers, pleasant  _ appearing _ though they be. It would be diligent to ascertain their origins and motives.”

Licking some stray droplets of wine from his paw Leobold replied, “Well Bel ya go right on ahead.”

“Agathe! Kleon! If those be your authentic monikers.”

The couple exchanged distressed glances. “How may we be of service?” Agathe asked.

“Answer succinctly and cease your prattle! Where do you embark from?”

“F-from Krimnos.”

“Ha! Very likely indeed. Then describe Krimons to me,” Xirabel demanded.

“Well,” Kleon began, “It is famous as the birth place of Anapse.”

“You charlatan, you do not know who Anapse is,” spoke Xirabel poking Kleon in the chest.

“I do! I do!” he replied, sweating in the cool evening air, “Anapse was born in our village and studied at the Dekatia in Meletis. He founded his own school where goodness is the pleasure of life.”

“And are you also on way to Meletis?”

“Yes.”

“And why is that? Why leave Krimos?”

“A horse was born with two heads!” Agathe shouted. She pulled the peplos worn over her chiton up to her face and began to cry softly, “It devoured itself.”

Taking off his cloak and wrapping it about his wife’s shoulders Kleon spoke, “Cattle have drowned themselves. Babes suckle at the breast, but it is not milk but blood they wean themselves on.”

“We heard that the fortress at Listes was overrun,” Agathe continued through quiet sobs, “That Returned were ravaging the garrison and would come for us.”

“Did others leave the village?” Canis asked.

“Most did,” Kleon answered, “Some went to look for family at Listes and help there, but most headed for Meletis or further south. An axle broke on our cart earlier and so we fell behind.”

“Thank all the gods that we did,” spoke Agathe, ecstasy on her face. She knelt down next to Leobold who still had Hira and Vala each on a knee. “Blessed be all the gods but none more exalted than Helios, who has sent another Ajani to save us.”

While Leobold bemusedly but no less joyously embraced the family, Canis and Xirabel took counsel together a few steps away.

“I have studied well but know nothing of what they speak. You are wide traveled, what make you of this?” Xirabel inquired.

“It is a confused situation. Toril may be grander than I supposed. Leobold must have origin somewhere, some other continent.”

“From these two it would be a nation in distress.”

“Jay-folk are wont to see omens in how their chicken pecks at meal, but if an entire village evacuated there must be some cause.”

“We have not beheld a village in flight, only this one family. Act on what is verified and do not overly trust.”

Rubbing at his shorn whiskers, Canis replied, “What a coincidence though, if we found ourselves here but there were no calamity?”

“Do you entertain that some god, Heliod or whomever, truly intervened and brought us?” Xirabel scoffed.

“No I do not,” Canis replied, “But while it is peculiar to have awoken here, it would be more so if all were right and fair with the world. My scars itch. Something wicked we are fallen into.”


	2. Genesis Continued

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving onwards through the strange land they've awoken in, the triune's genesis continues as they arrive at Meletis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your interest in my work. This is an ongoing original work of fiction. Feedback is encouraged and appreciated.  
> You can find me at:  
> https://twitter.com/WrightWriting  
> https://www.instagram.com/rainbowpup.a.lup/

The misplaced adventurers joined the family. Leobold carried Hira and Vala, one comfortably fitted on each shoulder. They did not continue onward long. Outside of an hour the final vestiges of twilight began dwindle. Soon the group diverted off the road to camp. The chilled air was heavy with moisture and dew formed on the ground, but they did not construct a fire. Agathe and Kleon were in fear of being set upon and insisted on sleeping well west of the road lest any night-goers spot them. By the same cause they built no fire and though the entering night was cold it was tolerable. The family had only bread to eat and very little of it. Two leaven loaves was all their food. They offered the trio one of the loaves to parse amongst themselves.

Leobold embarrassedly placed a paw atop his head and declined, “Thank ya kindly but Aah’m particular in my ateing.”

“Yes and we had rations afore coming upon you,” Canis lied awkwardly.

“Please take of something,” Agathe pleaded.

Canis and Xirabel shared half a loaf betwixt themselves and Leobold abstained all together, but all three drank water from a clay jar wrapped in rope.

The family laid blankets underneath their cart and slept together, the children in the middle nestled betwixt the parents. Leobold staked his scutum in the ground and made of it a manner of headboard for Canis and he; they lay next to each other on the earth. Elves as Xirabel do not sleep in the fashion of most creatures. Those fey rather enter a trance and meditate, though for a shorter time than material things slumber. Xirabel’s custom was to remain awake as both student and watcher. Conjuring a miniscule ball of light within her palm, she would engage what books and papers she carried with her. Always in her company was her infant tome of spells strapped to her right thigh.

The trio had not been fortunate in their abduction. They wanted most essentials for journeying. They carried no rations nor waterskins; they had no bedding nor travel packs. Their daily attire were the lone possessions which had accompanied them. This measure was not fortune but preparedness. Save when they slept they kept their essentials to hand, and even then their arms were to hand.

Canis’s pauldrons, greaves, and keffiyeh all were absent. He had been dressed in moss colored woolen ketill pants which he kept tucked into his calf-high brown boots. His breastplate, concern-calloused boiled leather of deepest umber, he wore over a tan linen doublet. Of the same constituent were his vambraces. His final habiliment was a faded oak-brown hooded-cloak. Banded on his left hip was a nimcha saif with a knuckle-bow quillon connecting to an outward curving pommel; on his right a janbiyah dagger with which to parry.

Midway past the night, whilst Xirabel meditated, Canis stirred. Rolling away from the stifling warmth of Leobold’s fur he readjusted himself upon his back and let his weary eyes glaze about the sky. Despite the presence of a shy moon which glowed not at all, the travelers were not encased in total darkness. The firmament glittered with a cornucopia of stars. Ago, Canis had been hurt grievous in the Reaching Woods. A pike made pierce his side high of the hip, rending the seam wherein the front and rear of his armor was stitched. His memory was shut to what next occurred, except that Leobold had by some extreme effort extricated them both. His partner got him to Scornubel, the caravan city. Exposed on his back, stiff, numb, leaking his body about himself, Canis sweat his agony upon the floor of a temple of Lathander whilst a cleric sought to intervene. Mounted above the alter and set into the wall was a sieve. As the sun stretched awake that morn it shone through in droplets. Shooting through the grate the light peppered the interior and dotted the ranger’s pale visage. Canis was recalled to this as he examined the mesmeric diversity of the cosmos. Raptured by the sky’s rich hues his tepid realization approached. Greater than a decade he had piloted the Sea of Swords and the great rives of Faerûn. From his youngest days he had learned to navigate and placed his life on that ability. These were not his stars.

Canis tapped his finger upon Xirabel and her discerning grey eyes opened. He uttered nothing, but she ascertained his intent. Without further signal she silently began to don her black breastplate and faulds of studded leather. Her four knives remained slotted on the armor’s chest and her rapier and spellbook had not been taken down her hip. Canis likewise readied himself. His dagger he had left on and now replaced his broadsword and clad his breastplate. He went to awake Leobold who slept curled in a ball. He gently stroked his companion’s great mane until Leobold’s amber eyes blinked awake.

“We must away,” Canis whispered into Leobold’s round ear.

Lolling out his tongue in a yawn, Leobold swung his shield upon his back and was drowsily ready to depart. As they slipped back towards the road he cast an adoring look upon the family left sleeping in the arid grass.

“Aah’m sorry ta be leavin’ those sweet people behind,” spoke Leobold.

“We may see them yet in the city,” Canis reassured his friend.

“What cause is here?” Xirabel asked Canis as they groped back to the road in the starlit dark.

He responded succinctly, “We are not on Toril.”

Xirabel looked straight ahead, squinting through a sparse sheet of fog, “And yet all appearances attest that this is the Material Plane.”

“Suppose it’s another on’,” Leobold wondered aloud as he thumped along.

“Another? Additional?” Canis asked incredulously.

Leobold grinned shyly, “Well the Feywild and Shadowfell are versions of the Material Plane. Who’s ta say thar ain’t more?”

Xirabel rubbed the bridge of her nose, “Scholars have trekked the cosmos for generations. They conclude there are no more.”

Leobold snorted and inclined his head, “The universe is a big place Bel, that’s all Aah’m sayin’.”

“It is grand and we know not all that it contains,” spoke Canis, “But Xira is true. The planes have all been mapped in their essential essences.”

“Whoever found the time ta do that?” Leobold started.

“Mordenkainen, mainly,” Xirabel duly responded.

“Who?”

“A renowned wizard. I read both of him and by him in Candlekeep. He traversed many planes, including Avernus and a heretofore undiscovered demiplane called Barovia.”

“Gosh! N’ where is that fellah from?”

“He is human, therefore Toril, somewhere.”

“Or maybe he moseyed about from here,” Leobold laughed.

“Do not tease her,” Canis chided. “We must take care, we are more vulnerable than supposed.”

The sun broke over the horizon. Titian beams washed across the land and irradiated its occupants in a fuzzy glow. The ocean was near. It’s harsh brine filled their nostrils and made Canis heady. An infant gale blustered, tossing the saline-tinged fog and chilling the damp travelers. The waking hours were yet too dark and the air too thick to behold the sky, but Canis perceived a storm not so far.

The green-bare plain expanded and was precipitously cut. A channel traversed the acreage, splitting it in twain and forming on the north side, where stood the trio, a mighty winded plateau. The sea rushed below, waves smacking one another in belching gurgles. Spurred by ravenous winds shrieking through the pass, they shattered themselves against the deeping cliffs. The water was ripe, fresh of salt and life. It ferociously cascaded, punching through the earth. Many ships abreast could have travailed it, but nothing rode those gnashing waters.

Near the extremity of the plateau the road turned sharply east. The eroding cliffs lofted high above the channel where the road changed, but where it continued on it graded boldly lower. Curving away it rolled toward a distant shore. At the edge of this boisterous land was Meletis. A mass of shadows silhouetted against the eastern fire, lapped by sable waters. It was constructed at the junction of sea and channel, straddling the gentled land on the western shore, the shallows of the sea on the east, and the running alongside the north bank of the channel.

As the three descended towards the polis Xirabel spoke through heavy breaths, “The exertion of magick to plane shift us would have been extreme. It is not sensible.”

“I am taken less with the how or why and more concerned with our survival. Whatever conflux of forces brought us here cannot mean stability,” Canis replied.

“We are maneuvered parts by a filthy and mechanic hand. Until we know its owner we shall have no respite.”

“Give inquiries to the city and I shall see to our maintenance.”

They continued onwards towards the enlarging polis. When the sun was higher and the fog thinned, Xirabel ceased her march and stooped to examine the moist road in the sparse morning light. Canis and Leobold stopped while she worked. The top layer was a mess of tossed dirt punctuated by shallow grooves and cracks. She took a knife from her chest and dug the soft debris away. Beneath it the ground was packed firm and not by the gradual travail of feet but by engineers. The road had been shaped, stamped, and hardened with intent. The blemishes were limited to the loose topsoil which was thick.

“Evidence, I think, that those folk were truly stragglers of a greater host. The road has been kicked up by much travel. If it is mended regularly enough to have so good a foundation then this damage must have been recent.”

“So a village did disperse then,” Canis thought aloud, “But not because a calf ate itself, so why?”

“What number of persons would you place in a village until calling it a town?” Xirabel asked still squatting.

Canis and Leobold exchanged glances.

“Ah’d say around two-hundred ya gettin’ to be town sized.”

“The road is very worn,” Xirabel tugged at her eyebrow.

They continued their way forth and the declining road began to level. The sun, showing bright and low in the sky, had broken the fog. Leobold, heaviest in cargo and so least in stamina, but still greatest in endurance, especially felt the weariness of lumbering his frame cross country on no food and little sleep. His stock of fat could carry him far, but at immense toil and a slow pace. In the increasing heat of the summer morning he panted heavily and shook his thick mane. Canis was more slim, made of slender muscle all efficient for lean forrays, but with no store to draw on for prolonged endeavors. His dusted hair stuck to his face and the sweat made the caked dirt run wet down his cheeks. His pants grew damp with sweat and stuck about his groin and thighs. Xirabel was both the best and worst of them all. She possessed the gentle pudge that many scholars wear resulting from extended hours of motionless contemplation. But the same perturbation of mind which had given her this physique also kept her from regular exercise. Her black garb sucked in the heat and was stifling. There was no fresh water.

They continued along the road and it began to level just above the sea. The polis stood not far off and the four-hour sun gave it character. Walls of mud-brick thickened with beach sand ensconced the civic proper on three sides. They had a height of four dekapodes and were one and half dekapodes wide at their base, tapering towards a blank cap. The western wall was longest, extending perpendicular from the edge of the channel and running the length of the polis north, then turning east and running to the shore to guard the northside. A southern wall parallelled this and was built along the channel’s edge and also terminated at the shore. The polis possessed two gates, the Setting Gate in the west wall where ran the greater road, and the smaller Shore Gate in the north wall out of which a coastal trail too unkempt for loaded travel wrapped to Krimnos. Square towers of like constitution and extent jutted outwards, forming barbicans with each gate.

Leobold ventured, “Aah was some popular with those folks we met prior. Goin’ inta this city now…”

“If the god of those villagers is regarded here then we could trade on you,” Canis replied.

“We have not the facts to make a determination,” spoke Xirabel, “Without knowledge of this place any engagement is dubious. I say we conceal him until we are aware what value his presence may bring.”

“Bel Aah take ya notion, but Aah must confess mah tendency is ta stick out.”

“There is no creature more conspicuous than you and we needs subtlety. I have been thinking upon a spell, Disguise Self.”

“What is its work?” Canis inquired.

“An illusion. It distorts the caster’s body and wearables for a brief time.”

“Mah Bel, that is mighty clever of ya. What other goodies have ya got in that thar book?” Leobold asked with mirth.

Xirabel fidgeted with the straps of her spellbook and glanced at the ground, “I scribed a glance of the spell from a parchment at a Lower City…vendor. I meant to meddled it into a disparate version for use only on my cursed horns. My intent was to lengthen the use of the spell by focusing only on one portion while preserving the rest of my form ”

“Have you been successful?” Canis asked.

Xirabel took a deep breath and raised her chin with embarrassed pride, “No I have not. Still more the orthodox spell affects only the caster, not another.”

“Aah see no other way ‘round it.”

“I shall commence, then.” Xirabel drew forth her spellbook, “Does here suffice?”

Canis scanned, “I perceive no one.”

“Should Aah brace for some discomfort?”

“No, it is only an illusion and will not touch your corpus proper.”

Canis held Xirabel’s spellbook open and faced it towards her. She wove her precise elven fingers into a tapestry of signs as she intoned the arcane words encrypted in her book. Leobold felt nothing, but slowly his visage appeared to shift and mold. His extending snout receded into his face becoming a puggish nose with long lips running underneath. His fur melded away and became beige skin. His mane did not change, but now could only be taken as a particularly thick head of hair and beard, blending from brown to burgundy. This was all Xirabel could manage. Leobold’s paws, tail, and furry chest remained. They tucked his tail down his skirt into one of the girdled legs and with some difficulty cinched his shirt closed over the greater part of his chest.

Canis repressed a grin, “Not bad. Keep your front paws tucked into your belt and we shall hope this works.”

Their time in Lower Baldur’s Gate gave no preparation for what greeted them. They had all sustained through the vagaries of poverty, as dangerous as any adventure. But not even Canis’s orphaned-weaned childhood compared.

The refugees were sprawled before the Setting Gate. They were several thousand in number. Their residences were ramshackle-built along the wall and diffused outward onto the plain in a never ebbing tide of garbage. Some had pitched tents while others lay beneath overturned carts. The well-to-do had constructed hovels and shanties out of debris, discarded. The road ran through the burgeoning slum’s center and makeshift alleyways, improvised betwixt the dilapidated residences, were filled with entire families sleeping in the open air.

As they approached the fringe of the encampment the stench of putrescent poverty straggled them. Assorted children sat naked and cold in the dirt, tending to themselves. Ragged souls lay passed out in fought-hard wine. Corpses, emaciated and starved, bludgeoned or stabbed, some drowned in pools their own mire, were strewn higgledy-piggledy. They were rigid with leathery pale skin, or others with purple-bruised rot. The drained blood from suspended carcasses of mules, chickens, goats, sheep, and cows which had been slaughtered coagulated and seeped into the street, mixing with the dispersed sewage of the living. The salt gale did little to dampen the rancid fetor and so none saw cause to move the dead bodies even as they cooked for days in the sun.

Xirabel pulled a black mask halfway up her face. Grabbing the edges of his cloak, Canis bundled it and covered his nose.

“This is worse than Little Calimshan,” spoke Canis.

“These are more people than a single village.”

“They need help,” Leobold’s eyes were wide, “We caint let that family come ta this.”

Canis wiped the sweat from his forehead which stung cold in the morning air. Turning to face Leobold, he stood upon his toes to reach his hands up and hold the leonin’s face, “We are not positioned to give assistance.”

“They need help.”

“We have no food, no water, no coin, and may not be on Toril, least of all Faerûn! We cannot now be warders of the displaced!”

Careless of his disguise, Leobold took a massive paw from out his belt and placed it on Canis’s cheek. His closely shorn, grey-tinted beard which aided in concealing the faded scars striping his face felt gentle pads draw across them. He surveyed the clouded sky, searching out a sign of the moon, then squeezed his eyes shut.

Xirabel observed them from a distance that would never be breached. She was their knowledge and had grown close to them after her own fashion, but she existed outside these transcendental moments.

“Our answers and our security are in the city,” Xirabel declared matter of factly.

After a pause Canis spoke, “We will return for them.”

They waded through the filth spilled about the road. Animal remains, their rotting slowed by the sea breeze, lay strewn about. The refugees had eaten them entire, flesh, organs, and all. Gulls pecked at the ruins, ripping bits of neglected flesh from the tunneled rib cages. An indiscreet black shape quivered and hummed, thousands of flies in a single mass, feasting.

As they continued on the road toward the polis the inhabitants increasingly took notice. Ragged folk in ragged clothes peaked from their disarranged habiliments and excluded their heads from their quarters. Many lay sick in the consuming damp, pulmonating their dying breaths. With no source of fresh water outside the illusive polis, agile disease had spread within the confined hobbles. Blood was exchanged, worms fed in excrement and latched to the toes which trod through. A crisis of hunger, of thirst, of exposure, of sickness.

The gap betwixt vulnerable and obliviating destitution was an impassable chasm. The three new arrivals possessed vigor to travel and wore a healthy pallor. Their sweat-stained, dusty clothes were spared of rips and holes. And they bore armor and weapons. To the refugees Canis, Leobold, and Xirabel were an extravagance of stability only to be dreamed of. Solicitations of every manner were flung at them, begging, offering, bargaining, threatening.

“—just a little—”

“—a good trade—” 

“Please sir, my baby—”

“—work for anything—”

“—could be set at—”

Walking behind Canis and Xirabel, Leobold ushered them to the gate at a heady pace lest his heart erupt.

A boy of teenage years, caked in refuse and naked, stood from a seat of mud and stepped into the road, blocking the way.

“Where do you go?” he spat at the ground and tossed the matted brown hair from his face.

Canis eyed him evenly. His sight never strayed from keeping the boy’s eyes, but his periphery scanned the small crowd beginning to mill about. Some dozen had encircled them, but all kept at least a body length away. They were injured, starved, ill; a little enough threat but the sheer numbers could prove fatal. Only one decrepit need fling a stone and hit true.

“Be easy,” Leobold whispered to Canis.

“Do you challenge our way?” Canis asked measuredly.

“I stand here,” the boy answered. His arms were held out taunt to his sides with balled fists.

“Leave off!” a younger lad hissed from the side of the road. He was smaller, a child proper, and hiding half behind an untanned skin hanging from a tentpole.

“We continue on,” Canis declared, yet he did not advance.

“To where?” the boy demanded.

“We are not your charge,” Canis insisted, “Do not challenge our way. This is a clear road.”

The boy cackled an oath and spat the ground once more, “Clear? Clear? If so why are we out here?”

“Seek a diviner,” Xirabel quipped.

“I speak not with you!” he flung his arm up and help out an accusatory finger. “I converse with this fool who thinks those gates will open up like lover’s cunt.”

Canis blew air out his nostrils and inclined his head.

“Why would you gain entrance and not us? What does your purse hold? Answer me!” the boy demanded, voice cracking.

The boy did not raise his fists, but inclined them slightly to level at his waist as he took a step forward. The boy did not see Canis move. Canis shot forward, his head held low in-between his shoulders, back hunched. His right foot came down, knee dipping low, toes pressing off the ground as he leapt forward landing firm before the boy. He reached under the boy’s arms and squeezed the shoulders upwards, locking his hands behind the neck and pinning the arms against the sides of the face. As his left knee bent with its landing he rolled back on it and tugged, yanking the boy downward. His right leg rose in a sharp knee splitting into the boy’s solar plexus. The boy crumpled to the ground in a fetal position, eyes rolled back into his head, dry heaving and clutching at his stomach.

The gathered gasped and recoiled back. The child ran from behind the hide and knelt by the boy, sobbing over him.

Maintaining his eyes on the encircled crowd, Canis set his face hard and stepped over the boy. Xirabel walked around him. Seemingly unconcerned with any external threat, Leobold knelt his mighty frame down.

“Shhh,” he spoke to the crying child.

Producing a paw from his belt he laid it on the boy and channeled. Magick trickled through his rough-worn pads and coursed through the boy. His eyes opened and he ceased to heave; scrapes and bruises disappeared and his stomach pained him no more.

“Ah’ll come back for ya.” Leobold stood and walked on.

“Is he not too poorly?” Canis inquired when Leobold caught up.

“Nah on’ could be anythin’ but poorly here, but Ah tended him.”

A crowd followed the trio up to the face of the oaken gate. Forlorn curiosity drove them from their debilitations. Weeks ago they had broken upon the polis walls and stuck like barnacles, festering and eroding. The Setting Gate had become a mythic obstacle, a barrier impassable by any human feat. They had prayed, wailed, and held up their dead like sacrifices all in vain. Poor and retched, they were exiled from Ephara’s civilization for the same debasement they meant to alleviate. History had played in a rapid microcosm. In the span of days gangs had become like armies, their generals into kings, and been swiftly deposed by violence, hunger, or disease. Prophets and oracles had risen who read fate in the movement of the gulls. Standing on a stump or seated on shoulders they preached their method. The gods must be appeased and so the waning food must be sacrificed. And the gate remained shut and the preacher was torn by a mob. Invoking Mogis, God of Slaughter, they could break down the gates with a ram fashioned from carts and stones. And the gate remained shut and arrows pelted the assailants and killed them. There was no gate on the ocean, one preached. The waves showed Thassa’s benevolence and they would swim the channel into the Siren Sea and climb up the docks. And they all drowned and gulls perched upon their bloated corpses and pecked at their flesh as fish nibbled from beneath. Now they observed the newcomers who confidently strode to the gate. Languishing in perdition for weeks they waited to see if thess folk would gain entrance.

Six toxotai stood grouped together atop each of the towers flanking the gate. They wore short Doric chitons which ended at their middle thigh and were belted with plain leather. Knives hung at their belts and each wore a linothorax and Pilos helmet. They eyed the gathering crowd and began to nock arrows.

“Which one do you take as commander?” Canis asked Xirabel.

She examined them a moment, “None. They monitor the cast-offs. Get their attention.”

Canis cupped his hands around his grey stubbled lips and called, “Hail! Mark me archers!”

Each group of six began to spread about the tower cap and they sighted upon Canis.

“If this be Meletis as we have been told then we seek entrance to your city!” he called.

One of the toxotes drew back his bow and fired. Whether it was a warning shot at the feet or misaimed was unclear, but it did not matter. In a motion Leobold reached an immense paw behind his back, swung his scutum off, and arced it over Canis’s head. It planted more than a daktylos into the hard stamped ground. The arrow struck low on the shield and harmlessly snapped.

The toxotai glanced amongst each of their squad, then looked across to their fellows on the opposite tower. One hustled to the rear-cap and descended out of sight.

“For you, Xira,” spoke Canis with a nod.

Xirabel was innocuously consulting her spellbook. She replaced it at her hip and placed her arms across her chest, waiting.

Presently the toxotes returned with a seventh who joined him on the southern tower. He was clad in full panoply, save for a lance which was absent. His helmet sat squat atop his head and was Illyrian in style.

The new man shouted down at Canis and all looked to either he or the ranger and none saw Xirabel intoning under her breath while twisting her fingers.

“This gate is shut by order of the Dodecahedron and no one outside the politeia may gain entry!”

Xirabel stepped forward and addressed the man, “Good sir we come on urgent business from the fortress at Listes!”

The man dabbed at his forehead under his helm, “You appear not of Meletis. My orders are—”

“Noble sir,” Xirabel called, “We are fatigued with travel and the day grows hot. Shall you not admit us? Do you not advance hospitality to messengers of your kinsfolk?”

The man rubbed his eyes. He felt captivated, moved to oblige, “Hold fast!” he called down and then descended away.

Some minutes passed. Then a great squealing of hinges as one of the cured wood doors began to scrape open.

“We best hurry on,” spoke Leobold lifting up his shield and hastening his companions forward. As far the trio was from the gate, the crowd was from the trio. Nervous, skeptical, and in fear of the health and arms of the newcomers they had kept wide. Now they surged forward as though a divine seal had split open and paradise lay accessible.

The three were quickly at the gap and slipped through into the polis. Five sweating men had cracked the gate and now hurriedly shoved it closed while two others replaced a bar. The refugees could be heard banging on the gate, screaming and pleading. They had come with hope for asylum, trusted in oracles, abandoned all optimism, and had now been baited. The gate could open, just not for them.

Against the yell of the toxotai warning the massing crowd back, the man in charge stepped forward.

“I am Eocles, Lokhagos of the Setting Gate,” he announced saluting them with an open palm held before him.

“I am Xirabel. My companions are Canis and Leobold. We have travelled far and are weary.”

“The Tagmatarkhis must hear your report,” spoke Eocles succinctly.

“We have made great haste to be here. Surely a Lokhagos of the tower guard may understand that to take long counsel with the Tagmatarkhis we must have some brief refreshment.”

Eocles was too charmed to refuse.


	3. Heuristic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Each member of the triune attempts to learn more of Meletis and Theros.

Eocles led the three through a wood-beaten door into the base of the southern tower. It contained a small barrack with two single-room floors. Stained and lumpy pallets of stuffed hay covered in coarse blankets were arranged on the earthen floor. Wooden boards inserted into the wall formed an open-straight staircase leading above.

On the second floor were benches arranged before a large table. Braced along the walls were racks of hoplon ready at hand should infantry be called up. There were the hoplite’s Corinthian helmets hung atop their dorata, with painted aspides leaning against the wall. Into the eastern wall were windows set which looked out onto the morning polis. Sprawling unto the piered shore, building’s white-marbel facades ignited like fire in the lucent dawn. Turquoise-hued tiled roofs echoed the viridescent waves of the ocean.

“Take repose here and eat of something,” spoke Eocles, “I shall inform the Tagmatarkhis of your arrival.”

Sweating profusely, he averted his gaze from Xirabel and proceeded away.

Leobold began to fetch provisions from a larder in the corner of the room. He first placed a basin of water for the trio to wash the dirt from their hands and paws. He placed clay goblets and an amphora of wine upon the table, setting next to them bread and olives. A modest portion of salt-dry fish he found also and put that on the table.

They ate rapidly and ravenously. The whole of the table was genuinely consumed to the final morsel, for they knew not when another meal might be had or provisions acquired. Canis and Xirabel ate only the bread and olives, leaving moderate fish to Leobold whose constitution demanded meat, though he took partly of the other fare as well. He imbibed the furthest part of the wine and Xirabel also took her share, but Canis abstained and drank water only.

Upon finishing his portion Canis moved to the side of a window and looked outward upon the awoken polis. A gentle cacophony of noise, deadened by the salt wind, expanded through the area. Hectic urbanity made him uneasy. The swirling clamor of diverse life bustling against itself dulled his focus. The humming severity of the ocean, or the meandering ferocity of a thicket-run river, such were his elements. The ironic mirroring of himself and Xirabel frequently dropped upon his mind. The claustrophobic, impoverishing dust of Little Calimshan had choked his youth and set bitterly into his heart. He fled paltry-corrupted civilization for the violent freedom of wilderness. Whether Xirabel had embraced the refuse of settlements like Baldur’s Gate in rejection of her painful time in Arborea, or if the accumulation of knowledge to aid in lifting her curse took her there by necessity, Canis was unsure. But that she could navigate rubbish-heaped streets as well as he could pilot a ship he was certain.

Canis turned round. Leobold was licking the tabletop with shameless absence. Xirabel was not present, but despite hearing nothing from below he knew she must be searching the ground floor.

“Xira,” he called softly from the stair-head.

“How looks it?” Xirabel inquired as she passed over the barrack for anything of use or worth.

“The captain is either too incompetent, or else to taken with you, to have thought to set a guard on us. There is a gap betwixt the wall and the city’s beginning.”

“Once cleared we shall slip away.”

“The archers will easily view us.”

“No doubt patrols maintain order within the city, but no guards set upon a battlement examine their backs. The enemies guarded against attack from without. Besides, the crowd holds their attention. Ah—here!”

From a careless wicker basket in the corner of the room Xirabel retrieved six soiled himatia, coated in grime and stained with foul dark patches.

“Ah smell somethin’ bad,” Leobold complained from upstairs.

“We cannot shift throughout this place so attired in war,” Xirabel called back.

“Sometimes the custom is to wear arms. We saw it common enough in Baldur’s Gate,” spoke Canis.

“Observed you not how the archers were garbed? Or else the armor arranged upstairs? Theirs is dissimilar to ours both in style and material.”

Canis and Leobold relented and proceeded downstairs to dress.

“Bel, this is justa blanket,” spoke Leobold confusedly holding the rectangular woolen garment.

“I noted several of the dispersed wrapped in clothing such as this. I think it goes—”

Xirabel gathered the robe about her and slung it over her left shoulder. She then brought it around her back and underneath her right arm. She took this piece and tucked it beneath the rest, bundling the extra under her left shoulder. It covered her from collarbone to ankles, leaving only her arms and right shoulder exposed. Canis produced his janbiyah and sliced at the seams of his doublet at each shoulder. He cut the binding threads and pulled them out, separating the sleeves from the torso. He rolled them up and into the pocket of his ketill pants he stored them. He garbed himself in his own himation after the way Xirabel had done. Leobold took three of the remaining himatia and together tied them at their corners and clothed himself likewise. The scutum on his back made an odd shape but there was no remedy for it. His unillusioned paws he tucked into the folds of the robe.

They exited the barrack-tower with a casual air and walked modestly into the city. Near the walls the area was not too dense. Through the gate the road became paved stone, curving gently down at the sides to allow rain water to runoff into recessed gutters. About the road was grassy earth where the industry of a barracks was hours in motion. Massive clay hearths operated as burning forges while ashen smithies, silhouetted against the fires of their trade, hammered shoes and armaments. A limping apprentice pockmarked with acne strained to heave a crate of arrowheads to an awaiting fletcher who greeted him amiably. Nearby, tanners cured wild hides pinned taunt across open-air racks. The leather results would be shaped and riveted by armorers into expensively wrought protection. Linen-layered breastplates stuffed with boiled animal fat was offered as a poorer substitute. The tradespeople’s humble wood-built homes with rooves of thatched grass and cloth-closed openings waited idly behind their businesses of war.

Traveling east into the polis upon the stone road, the trio saw in the distant center a grand acropolis. A mortar-stone wall ringed the erupting hill, encircling it fully at its base. Like a single boulder slung by a monstrous psilos which slammed into the earth, a squat citadel penetrated unnatural-level ground into the side of hill. Situated atop were two startlingly magnificent edifices, the sunlight screaming from their burnished marble exteriors. Expanding out across the hill near its upmost edge was a vast compound of intricate buildings and towers connected by freestanding causeways that defied the earth: the Dekatia. The second structure was brutal in its clarity. Arising from the hill’s zenith, a gargantuan column of white-fire marble. Elaborated of gold, a statue of a god was erected upon the column. It bore aloft a mighty spear, its bladehead a masterfully shaped crystal scattering light in showers of rainbow onto the polis below.

As the three proceeded further into Meletis stone streets and pathways sprouted off the main thoroughfare. Wooden buildings began to possess stone bases to and soon there were some made entirely of brick with blue-tiled rooves. The empty spaces of grass evaporated into stalls and shops. The street filled with bustling folk, some clad plainly and others richly.

At the base of the acropolis, outside its walls, was a sprawling agora. A gushing fountain surrounded by fifteen bronze statues was at its heart. Dozens loitered and lounged about it. Beneath the shade of a stoa bordering the edges of the square merchants were established in bustling commerce. At the south end were poles staked into the ground from which flesh-flogged prisoners hung in chains, weeping tears and blood onto the stones below. A ionic-porticoed asklepieion painted a soft blue waited quietly in the south-west corner to receive the sick and hurt. In the north-east corner was a vivliopólis erected entirely of stone where scrolls and codices might be dearly purchased. Established under the stoa on the agora’s northern edge was a draped platform. Twelve stately individuals sat there upon wooden seats, protected by unarmored guards wielding truncheons arrayed before it.

A thirteenth figure positioned at the edge of the platform banged a staff and announced: “The Dodecahedron recognizes the exalted Epískopos Solsemon!”

Garbed in crimson samite, a large framed man with skin a sun-baked brown and slick with oil arouse solemnly from his seat to step forward. He was of a peculiar constitution, written over with the letters of age but still vibrant-young in his movement and manner. His heavy black-flecked grey beard coiled down his chest in thick tangles.

“Fellow administrators,” he evocated in a smooth tenor, “If it please you and be your pleasure on this auspicious Heliod-blessed day, take my counsel and hear my heart. While I shant detain your great personages long do not wrongly equate my brevity with the severe importance of my message.” His voluminous words rang out across the agora. He stood at an angle, facing partway the seated eleven and partway the assembled crowd. “The one-time children of our bosom have fallen into sin even as those still amongst our brood do flirt with it!” He gesticulated powerfully with his hand and his voice climbed in intensity. “I am told hereby that a fair number of scattered maybe-Melitians reside on our porch. I am told more hereby that they reside in resounding poverty. I am told further hereby that they are _refugees_ ,” he annunciated the term sarcastically, “and have fled a great terror. I am told the terror fled is of _the Returned_ .” This word he spoke with severe gravity and a shudder swept the crowd. “I shall tell you hereby,” he pointed firmly, “That these barbarians, for do they not come from outside our civilization? That these barbarians shall not defile our politeia with their villainy! That these barbarians shall not infect their destitution into our politeia and thereby take our means!” Here many in the crowd cheered their assent. “And yet one might ask ‘Are they not Meletians? Does Goddess Ephara not insist that we care for our kinsfolk through their upheaval?’ I think not of those desperates, for they are not upheaved as their hulls never were moored. Our nobel antecedents settled the Meletian peninsula and our polis guards it on land and sea at its northern extremity. None may venture south save by our leave cross the channel. Errants went north from our caress to settle inland and, when their vile sin brought destruction upon them, now beg for protection from Mother polis. Know you not that Heliod is mightiest of the pantheon? That by his great _Khrusor_ is justice maintained? Heliod despises the offspring of Phenax. The sun god should rescind his favor were we to welcome those steeped in sin who themselves, reeking of blasphemy, called the Returned unto them. Sacrilegious propaganda is promulgated through our polis! Verbose lies heaved from the amphitheatre by Phenaxian acolytes practising Xenagosian revels. If so threatened from within should we throw open our gates and let the besiegers so far kept at bay enter? Rather let us cast out the rhapsodes and actors! It is our holy duty to maintain order and civilization shall not bear an incursion of barbarians. For we would betray Ephara should we give over her gift to such uncouth rabble.” He ferociously punctuated these final words and the crowd screamed in support. Following this the mitre-clad Solsemon retook his seat with an air of weighty dignification.

“Does any further member desire to speak prior to taking up initiatives?” the announcer asked.

“Yes,” came a voice nearly imperceptible over the din of the murmuring crowd. Several seated members shifted uncomfortably. Solsemon folded his arms and stared severely across the quieting agora.

“The Dodecahedron recognizes the learned Perisophia,” the announcer banged his staff.

She sat hunched forward on her seat, miniscule and shriveled. Her grey hair was tied in a bundle at the base of her neck, but many wild strands did flicker in the wind. Her eyes too were grey, clouded over with cataracts. She did not rise to speak, neither did she look upward. Her tiny, rasping voice trailed out from her age-spotted face.

“The Epískopos of Meletis has made a forceful injunction, but his exaltedness lacks moderation. Quiet wisdom is often the best, if not the most inspiring, path through struggle. Our kinsfolk are made not by their state but by their blood. In grand pomp or displaced these persons are our kin. We are instructed by that bond and the precepts of hospitality to open our doors and set up our hearth. Our kindness shall soothe them and they will be rejoined to our manner. Only what is decent withers in destitution, but it is fertilizer to wickedness. We are not here desperate, so why then is it wickedly purposed to add to the calamity at our gate by ejecting citizens who make their bread through performance?. Already those same people are fallen on hardships since this council voted favorably on the Epískopos’s initiative to shutter the amphitheatre.”

She spoke no more. The announcer paused waiting to be certain that Perisophia had indeed concluded her remarks, then called, “Does any further member desire to speak prior to taking up initiatives?”

No one spoke.

“Does any member desire to advance an initiative to a vote?”

Solsemon rose, “Aye. Firstly, that no aid be administered at the expensive of the polis to those come down to the peninsula from the north. Secondly, that any person in violation of the suspension of performances, acting, and recitation, be stripped of their citizenship and expelled from the polis. Thirdly, that soldiery be levied against the possibility of unrest, internal or external, or in case of the presence of Returned.”

“On the first initiative what is the will?”

Ten ayes rang out against the two nays of Perisophia and a man seated next to her.

“It is advanced. On the second initiative what is the will?”

Seven ayes this time against five nays.

“It is not advanced. On the third initiative what is the will?”

Eleven ayes and Perisophia the only objector.

“It is advanced. Does any further member desire to advance an initiative to a vote?”

No one spoke.

“I hereby declare the agenda of this meeting of the Dodecahedron finished. The adopted initiatives shall be added to the register of law,” he banged his staff.

The council members began to to file off the rear of the platform under the escort of the guards. Perisophia rose slowly with the encouragement of a gnarled cane. A young girl mounted the platform against the tide of dispersing members and approached the elderly woman. She took Perisophia’s hand and lead her away.

The assembled crowd immediately made to disperse into the agora and beyond. The three companions stood together beneath the shade of the stoa.

“Ranger, your sense of it was right. Things are not right and fair; in fact they seem quite the quagmire,” spoke Xirabel.

“I care little for their political dilemma. We must continue to see to our upkeep and safety; and then manage some way back home. Tensions are surely touched off here, though. Sleeping rough is likely not an option,” Canis replied.

“That friendly Eocley will ‘ave reported us by now,” Leobold included.

“We will do well to not find the lokhagos again,” spoke Xirabel.

“Never have I heard tell of a land where gold holds no value. What matter if our coins are stamped with Ulder Ravengard? Like as not they would secure us lodging,” Canis proposed.

“An excellent hypothesis!” Xirabel animatedly put forth.

“Gratitude,” returned Canis unused to receive such praise.

“Let us test it,” Xirabel continued, “What money do we have?”

Canis and Leobold exchanged diffident looks.

“Alas your hypothesis has failed,” spoke Xirabel.

Canis scratched at the scars beneath his beard and looked at his boots.

“Ah think Bel was makin’ fun of ya, Canie,” Leobold offered helpfully.

“Yes, gratitude Leobold I had gathered that.”

“We will live or die here on what information we can acquire,” spoke Xirabel. “I propose we separate and each seek out some intelligence. This marketplace shall be true enough to locate again. We rendezvou at the fountain at sundown’s onset.”

Xirabel

At such proximity to the acropolis the wealth of the polis was on considerable display. The asklepieion at the south of the agora was covered in marble facades and delicate representations of healing miracles were made in relief. The vivliopólis was lesser in presentation, but still costly constructed of sturdy grey blocks of stone and capped with a navy tiled roof. Its door had been hewn from white birch and polished, an emblazoned codex painted boldly upon it. Into the eastern and western walls were made gaping-long windows by which sunlight poured in when rising or setting.

Xirabel scuttled down a sidestreet, taking position behind a pottery vendor dealing in vermilion clay. In this secluded security she began proposing a complex spell. In that day she had already drained her magick and felt the absence of its power. Necessary was a night of mediation to replenish her inner wellspring of arcane energy. The major portion of spells required a spark of power; the raw magickal force that propelled them into ringing existence. In Candlekeep Xirabel had grasped a circumvention of this limitation. Distinct spells, minimal in capacity, could be thrust into presence through a ritual. Though casting became further complicated and required increased time, rituals skirted the necessity of inner magick. The prolonged incantation, the complicated weaving of somatic gestures, and the small crystal set into the hilt of her rapier acting as a material focus, these were enough to cast particular spells. Xirabel had made the deliberate decision not to ponder that the language spoken here was unnervingly similar to the common tongue in Faerûn. Manipulated to a plane beyond all known cosmology, it was an impossibility that its inhabitants could share a tongue. And yet thus far only a scattering of words had sounded foreign. It was a peculiarity left untouched for now. The pace of her present predicament had given her no time to dwell on such trifling luxuries. Moving through the polis, while Canis watched for danger with Leobold readied to protect him from it, Xirabel observed signage. Wooden signs with crudely painted letters over the warfare shops near the wall; carved inscriptions on marble buildings and statues. They used an entirely foreign alphabet. It took her ten minutes to cast comprehend languages. When it was done she parsed through her memory.

 _“Lokhagos, tagmatarkhis.”_ Obviously military rankings, she scrutinized the words in her mind. _“Captain, battalion leader,”_ they meant. And _“Epískopos,”_ the title of the politician. No, not politician, _“bishop.”_

Adjusting her baggy himation to ensure her affects were properly concealed, she crossed again into the agora. She opened the vivliopólis door and proceeded inside. Familiar only with the towering severity of Candlekeep and the skeevy fencing of literature on the blackmarket of Baldur’s Gate, Xirabel was unprepared for the casual atmosphere of this _Argiletum_ ; she saw the name now, carved in black-filled letters on the door. Its meaning blurred in her mind, comprehend languages skipping between translations. Simultaneously her mind formed _“the violent death of Argus”_ and _“the place where clay is found.”_

“Titania!” she swore in whispered frustration, “Decrepit spell cannot even comprehend me the name of this shop.”

“May I assist you?” a voice called gently.

At the opposite wall was a small pine counter. Behind it was seated a woman in her late twenties with tawny colored skin and wavy chesnut hair. Dark freckles cut a horizontal line across her nose and cheeks; she grinned with a large-toothed smile.

“Lastheneia, proprietor,” she spoke, “Are you in search of a specific item?”

Xirabel wrinkled her nose, “May I peruse your collection?”

“If with care then yes. But mark the scrolls, they are further delicate than codices but scribes still favor their production because there is no cost of binding.” Lastheneia turned back to a lopsided man bracing himself upon the counter and continued the conversation Xirabel had evidently interrupted.

“A-a-a-nd I g-get to the copiests and th-they’d m-made representations on the f-first editions of my work,” the uneven man spoke with a wet, rasping stutter.

“They illuminated your manuscript?” Lastheneia asked.

“Y-y-y-y-yes!” the uneven man angrily stammered, “D-distracting from the v-value of my writing you see.”

Xirabel paced cypress shelves, cover-rich codices prominently displayed and bottom rows stuffed with wrapped scrolls. She examined the codices: _The Akroan War_ , the title embossed in gold thread on red-dyed leather, no author given; _The Fall of Agnomakhos_ , the letters stamped and filled with blue on a beige cover, also no author.

 _“These are their epics,”_ Xirabel thought, _“I need their treatises.”_ She began to examine the small wax tags tied to each scroll. One had the word ‘Θεογονία.’ The foreign Meletian letters shifted into common, ‘Theogony,’ it read, and the meaning of the word formed in Xirabel’s mind: ‘genealogy of the gods.’

She removed the scroll, untied the binding, and unraveled it. Unsure of etiquette and how much time one was allowed to leisure over a prospective purchase, Xirabel rapidly scanned the translating text for a single word. She located it, ‘Ἥλιος,’ shifting to ‘Heliod’ in her tongue, literally sun-god. Her eyes searched through the section: Heliod, faithful, oathkeeper, order. _“What else?”_ He smote… ‘Ἀτλαντὶς νῆσος’… ‘Olantin’… ‘island of Olan,’ blasting it into the ‘Σειρήν Πέλαγος’… ‘Siren Pélagos’... ‘open sea of entanglers’ or ‘binders of the open sea.’ There was an enormity to decipher. A battle with another god, Purphoros, ‘fire-bearer,’ tore the boundary of ‘Nyx,’ their god realm, and released a monster into the world, ‘πολύ κράνος’… ‘Polukranos’… the many-headed one. The beast was slain by a figure called Elspeth, but nothing more was written on this. From Heliod’s shadow another god was birthed, ‘Ἔρεβος’… ‘Erebos’… ‘deep darkness.’

_“Heliod is proud, lordly, wars for pantheon supremacy, has a twin, and is quick to deliver judgement,”_ Xirabel surmised. She moved through her memory for other divine names she had heard. There was ‘Ephara’ and ‘Phenax,’ she found the latter first but only attained the meaning of the name, ‘imposter,’ before she was taken from her research.

“I have never beheld someone scowl through _Theogony_ as you do,” spoke Lastheneia.

Xirabel’s face flushed with blood; she forced her rigid mouth into a curt smile, “Apologies proprietor—”

“I am called Lastheneia.”

“—Lastheneia, I did not intend to read overly long.”

“Read as long as you desire,” spoke Lastheneia leaning her chest over the counter, “Only you selected a dull work.”

Xirabel narrowed her eyes and a smirk phased across her lips, “And what does Lastheneia recommend?”

The owner fingered a loose wisp of her hair, rolling and tugging it, then gazing down at it.

Xirabel crossed her arms and turned to stare at Lastheneia, “Are such coy games your custom?”

Lastheneia twirled the strand of hair and feigned absentmindedness, “Hmmm?”

Xirabel’s nostrils flared as she marched at the woman lounging over the counter. She planted her palms down and leaned forward to stare directly in her face, “Proprietor—”

“Lastheneia.”

“—proprietor,” Xirabel continued, “What do you recommend?”

Lastheneia glanced up from her hair and looked at her patron, _“Tithonus,”_ she spoke, “A didactic poem.”

“And on what subject does it instruct?”

“You shall have to read it.”

“I will not be yoked into a sale so easily, girl,” Xirabel said fiercely. Her patience was thin as an iced river in early spring. The loathing of scheming merchants outscaled her rationality. It was foolish to become thus engaged with a rakish girl and risk drawing attention undesired, but she could not withstand being so needled.

Lastheneia popped upright, nearly smacking Xirabel in the face with her swinging hair, “I will lend you the work,” she spoke, “So I yoke you to nothing, except to return and restore the scroll to me. I have a copy here, it is quite brief too.” She moved briskly from behind the counter and snatched a scroll from a shelf without examining its tag. “Here,” she spoke holding it out.

Xirabel felt her face begin to flush again, hot blood rushing to her cheeks. She pretended to cough into the end of her himation to conceal her face. “Gratitude,” she spoke quickly taking the scroll. “I take my leave,” she turned and made for the white door.

“No desire to browse further?”

“No,” Xirabel barked as the door swung shut behind her.

“I a-am not ent-tirely certain y-you understand how businesses function,” spoke the uneven man.

Canis

When the Dodecahedron completed the crowd thinned, but past midday there were still a considerable many people seeking shade beneath the stoas and cool water from the fountain, to say naught of those with ready coin to purchase from the many vendors. Cluttered buildings ornamented in civility pinned Canis in, restraining his capacity to maneuver in a fight or to escape. A swirling mural of dense populace encased him, inhibiting his ability to spot threats or track a prey. In Little Calimshan any individual knocking past him might have wielded a dagger; each dagger might equally have intended for his purse strings or arteries. Every verbose hawker shouting offers, each roustabout stumbling in front of him, all potential managers of distraction towards insidious ends. Canis craved wide open spaces to see everything, anything coming, where he might exploit his nimble feet. But foes may hide in thorny brush, aloft in the carefree canopy of trees, within the severing crags of mountains, or camouflage in the biting snow or cleansing sand. Open water was his serenity. Few creatures dwelt in those depths that cared at all for his passing over it. More than that though did the isolation mean to him. His heart hesitated to acknowledge the baring truth, but it danced mockingly ever at the fringes of his mind and especially when he felt the confines of urbanity. Separated from populated life there existed for him fewer potential victims.

The agora and acropolis were situated at the heart of Meletis and represented its most affluent portion. The wealth and finery radiated northward, with gardened verandas and low-walled villas filling the space until the Shore Gate. Moving southward it reversed. Expanding towards the docks at the south-east intersection of the Meletian Channel and Siren Sea the polis became more densely packed and rough with the constant movement of ocean industry. The streets narrowed and were clogged with labor-sweating bodies, crates, barrels, and racks of amphorae. Shouldering through it, awkward in his baggy disguise, Canis strode with swift purpose. He needed no directions, the briney air filled his nostrils and summoned him. Abruptly Meletis fell away in a jagged ending, a few final warehouses straggling out of line. Beyond the cessation was a slope of empty land from which a wharf extended off into the lucent indigo. An embankment cushioned the polis from the eroding realm of Thassa. Canis slid down to the pulverized shore. Canis pressed alongside the large seawall as he moved down the coast to the wharf. The polis still bustled with activity above, but none could eye him unless they peered directly down the edge of the bank.

Rows of pillared wood set into stone pylons rose out of sand and sea, holding up the massive platform above where the polis cargo would be unloaded. The moist boards creaked with the jostling of footsteps and gruff voices drifted down to dissipate in the quiet underneath. Canis scrambled up the sand to the base of the wharf where it sat atop the beachhead. In that secluded crevice he slung off his himation and made to undress. He unfastened his breastplate and vambraces; he took off his boots; he undid the belt from which his sword and dagger hung; he stripped off his doublet and pants. All this he tucked in the small space betwixt beach and wharf, wedging it in. Taking handfuls of sand he built a mound to render it indiscernible from the infinite grains. Naked in the cool sea breeze, Canis went back out onto the open beach. He felt the warm sand between his toes, glistening in the afternoon sunlight and lapped dark by the high tide. He rolled his neck and let out a deep breath, then sprung headlong into the water. It was brilliantly cold and sent pins up and down his goosepimpling flesh. He dove in and out, sloshing and rolling in the easy caress of the foaming waves. He scrubbed his grimey hair and scraped the dirt from his face and beard, absolute serenity in his heart.

He returned to the shore and reclined his taunt chill flesh in the sand to dry in the baking sunlight. The coarse jostled grains rubbed against and stuck to his wet body. It comforted him, indistinct millions of welcoming familial hands clasping him on the back. _“We are the same,”_ they said.

He shook the water out of his hair as a dog might. He dressed again in the himation, girdling it tightly around his waist and between his legs, leaving his chest bare. With sure feet Canis climbed up the embankment onto solid earth. The wharf was fully docked with vessels, but only a small number of sailors were present, milling about unworking. Canis knew from his first glance that a single wharf of such modest size could never support so large a population. Their true harbor must be massive and connected by the channel. But if so then activity should be constant. Ships would need to dock, conduct their business, and return to the harbor to make way for further vessels. The wharf was too small for any prolonged stay. _“Something amiss here as well,”_ Canis thought. There would be some risk in questioning the sailors, but he concluded it justifiable. It was obvious that he was not Meletian and naught could be done of it. The people here were tanned by the fire-hot sun, but their skin still was fairly light and tinted with rose like warm ivory. Canis was darker by a shade and deeper brown. His thick-curled hair dense and spread across his body. The sailors wore brine-beaten tunics, or else only loin cloths. They had only a smattering of sparse hair across their chest and wispy beards. Canis had shaved his face not long before this absconding adventure and so it was light upon his face now, but thick crops covered his breasts and ran down his stomach to his groin, reappearing to coat his trunk thighs and rippling calves.

He walked down the wharf, vestiges of water gleaming on his skin as grains of sand shook off. The idle sailors muttered and indicated to one another as they took notice. Several played at dice on the top of a crate.

“Lost, Setssa?” one asked.

“In search of a captain,” Canis answered back.

One of the dicers guffawed, “What a Setssa want with a ship?”

“I want a _captain_ ,” Canis repeated.

“He unaware they go together,” one said in a hushed laugh, but Canis’s sharp ears heard it well.

“There no cause to see a captain except for a ship and no Setssa has cause for no ship.” The man rose from his seat at the crate, “So what you doing here?”

A ripple of anger coursed Canis’s muscles; he balled his fists and walked towards the man. “I—”

“Prepared to fight the entire wharf?” a voice called from behind.

Canis pivoted his feet and turned sideways, his eyes darting between the dicers and a woman standing at the crest of a gangplank on a moored ship. Her wrinkle-beaten skin, lashed with years of cruel sun and salt, made her look older than her middle years. Her hair was black with strips of grey, fraying at her temples, slicked behind her with oil and tied down her neck.

“Peace,” she said, “Do not be so fast to quarrel.”

“I brought no disagreement.”

“So say all stubborn men.” She walked down onto the wharf and held aloft her right palm in greeting. “I am Thetis, captain of the Kyrenia.”

“Canis,” he returned her gesture, “I would have words with you.”

“Come aboard.”

The Kyrenia was a lembos ship, small, without a mast, and built of light yellow resin-covered wood. Its partial deck split into two sections, one at the bow and one at the stern. Betwixt them was a recessed space of benches where rowers would work their oars, ten to a side. Beneath the sections of deck cargo could be stored. The ship’s only decoration was a blue bident painted on either side of the aquiline prow.

Thetis led Canis through the rows of worn benches into the shade beneath the stern deck. She sat on a curving beam of the keel and motioned him to do the same.

“What does a Setessan want with the captain of a Melitian merchant ship?”

Canis scratched at the scars beneath his beard. Deception and inquisition were not his forte. He looked around at the ship.

“She has seen many years on the water,” he spoke.

“And I with her. I am not the most prosperous captain, clearly,” she gestured at the tiny vessel, “But I know my way.”

“How long have you been docked?”

“A few days, why?”

“Do not other ships need to come down the channel from the harbor?”

Thetis pursed her lips and leaned forward, “What do you want a ship for?”

“I wanted a captain.”

“Here one is sat. And then?”

Canis scratched his beard, “It is odd that the channel is empty and the wharf static. I am only wondering about it.”

“Perhaps there is a storm out at sea.”

“But the wind has not changed once and it blows a warm air. Besides you have a low freeboard and could ride the shallows near to shore.”

Thetis stared at him suspiciously and Canis knew he had answered too quickly.

“How does a Setessan know about such things,” she asked flatly.

Canis swallowed, “I have sailed for many years.”

“Impossible.”

“Pray, why?”

“Sixteen years I have sailed and it has only ever been Meletians and Akroans at sea. No Setessan could work these waters without being known.”

 _“We should not have separated. I have no skill at this,”_ thought Canis. “I thank you for your time and take my leave.” He stood up quickly, startling Thetis, and left the ship.

  
  


Leobold

“Aah beg ya pardon, sir,” Leobold stopped a man in the agora who looked up nervously at the towering red head. “Is thar a tavern nearby?”

“A what?” the man asked confused.

“A tavern.”

“I do not know your accent,” spoke the man, unsure.

“Drink, ale, wine.”

“Oh!” the man scoffed uncomfortably, “There is a  kapileion just there.” He pointed down an off-street of the agora.

Leobold thanked the man and began to move through the busy marketplace, trying hard not to jostle or bump those around him; mostly they preemptively cleared his path. Canis had never known a place where gold did not hold value, but Leobold likewise had never known a place where a tavern, or kapileion as it was called here, did not hold drunken gossip of all that went on.

Down a south street off the agora which turned east, then further down a slender alley, the kapileion opened onto a descending hill. Irregularly shaped, its first floor was rectangular and made of modest time-scraped brick. Atop it was an unintended wooden structure. It jettied out over the entrance, overhanging it and the street, held up by thick brick pillars at each corner.

It bore no name, neither had it signage. It’s brick walls were haphazardly washed white. Streaks of color and caricature showed beneath, peaking out in small flecks and patches of design. Right of the door was a square patch of clean plain brick where a sign had been removed.

Standing outside Leobold chuckled to himself, “Aah’ve got no coin.” He continued walking the city.

He strolled leisurely, nodding amiably at the passersby who gawked at his looming stature. He wandered east, casually examining the buildings and people. Towards the extremity of the polis such things became sparse. The land returned to grass and soil and ended at a minor cliff declining into the ocean below.

At the perimeter of the polis, where the ground began to grade down toward the cliff, was a natural depression as though a god-hand genially pressed a finger into the ground. In it was the Meletian amphitheatre. A precise half circle had been carved into the curve of the earth and dug away in descending layers. Thirty tiers of benches formed into the dense dirt and layered in limestone working down to an even-stamped ground. On it was built a grand stage constructed of oil-shined pine. It was a rectangular edifice, paneled in wood from ground to platform. The greater part of it was open and bare; a wooden partition crossed it towards the back, separating a small rear portion out of view of the seats.

Never had Leobold beheld such a construction as this. He had watched itinerant mummers play on rickety stages opened up out of their carts, or acrobats perform in market squares. He knew the oligarchs of Baldur’s Gate had lavish palaces and ballrooms, and so likely had some venue for performances. Elturel surely had some as well, and maybe even Waterdeep. But he had no notion how such things would look. He imagined it all mostly the same, only fancier. Mummers in pleasant hats and their cart-stages pulled by groomed horses; acrobats adorned with ribbon; bards with gentile vocabulary. He wondered what entertainments were like, wherever it was they had come, or if there were acrobats or jugglers. He imagined sitting high up in the stands so as not to block anyone else’s view, laughing with Canie and Bel at actors making idiot faces.

He sauntered to the upmost edge of the amphitheatre and looked down below. There were four figures standing on the beaten ground near the first row of benches. Leobold determined immediately to greet them and inquire after this place. He was, after all, supposed to gain intelligence for Bel.

“Hullo!” he began to call as he walked down the tiers of seats two at a time, but the greeting caught in his throat as the figures came closer into view. Three of them stood arrayed around the fourth. Their chitons were clean white linen bordered with red or yellow and each held a makeshift club torn asunder from a hapless tree. The fourth’s chiton was frayed at the edges and yellowed with stains and wear. He was a wispy barefooted young man, thick auburn hair waving across his head. His eyes were amber, glinting gold in the radiant afternoon light. In his tan face they were like slantways gashes into a tree from a fine axe, filling with sap.

“You three unemployed vagrants, are the Returned not extant? Do not the elderly need their baggage carried?” complained the young man. “That my industry is scrapped for a funeral pyre is no matter, but would thieves pick over the ashes?”

“Reveler, you call me a thief and I shall split your mind upon the dirt,” one spat at the young man.

“Call you a thief? I never did call you a thief. I shall see that I am stoned afore I call you a thief, but loan me a drachma and I will wager that I can run faster than you.”

“Be grateful of our restraint, fool. But come by this venue of sin again and restraint we shall have no more,” another said.

“Restraint? Yes, so your mother has shown me with boiled rope only I have not coin to pay her.” the young man retorted.

“Filthy scoundrel!” one of the three took his cudgel and shoved the young man in the chest, “Rotten, filthy scoundrel!” he shouted.

“Cruel iterations!” the young man shot back.

“Now don’t y’all be gettin’ inta a row now,” Leobold’s large voice echoed from the amphitheatre walls. All four startled and looked up at the massive figure standing calmly amidst the rows of seats.

“By Heliod name yourself!” one called.

“Aah’m Leobold Flourmane, pleasure ta make ya acquaintance. What is it y’all are disagreein’ about?”

“These limp tractate-scarecrows refuse to let me fetch after my property,” complained the young man.

They exchanged quick uncertain glances, their boldness siphoned by the dominating presence of the newcomer. “The  Epískopos has shuttered the amphitheatre for corrupting public morals and spreading sacreligious ideology,” one called.

Leobold’s face drooped into despondency, “Now that thar is a right shame. Aah’d just been thinkin’ ‘bout bringin’ Canie and Bel here.”

“The amphitheatre remains closed or else I am an iconoclast, but my mask is left within the stage,” explained the young man.

“You shall not take back your appearances of revelry! They shall all be burned with the stage and amphitheatre also!”

“What matter to you if I should have my mask? Do you shout ‘centaur’ at a window on a mule? Does that seeping zit on your head make you a minotaur? A comic mask makes me no more a satyr.”

“Corresponding should be signs and things. Do not signify a monstrosity that you are not, for that is hated unto the gods that shaped you. Blasphemy is it to do revelry or distort your visage as a reveler.”

“Aah don’ rightly understand all that, but why don’ ya give this youngin back whatever it is he amissin’?”

“Fret not, these tickle-brains understand it even less.”

“Scoundrel!” With his cudgel held sideways betwixt his hands he shoved the young man violently to the ground. Bearing a passive countenance and his paws still concealed within his himation, Leobold bent his knees and hopped forward. A little jump was all it took to easily clear the stands. Propelled forward he let gravity pull his massive frame straight down in a cracking landing. The floor crunched beneath him, fissuring and throwing up a cloud of dust which swam in the air.

“Aah think ya’d best leave him alone.”

The three had all sprung backwards, one falling flat upon his back and scrambling shakily to his feet again. “Fiend!” one made his war cry and shot forward. He swung as high as his arms could reach, aiming for the side of Leobold’s head. He only managed to hit Leobold’s chin with the tip of his club. The tip broke off. Not a twitch passed Leobold’s serene face.

“Aah don’ believe y’all have thought this here through.”

The other two both lunged forward and bashed Leobold about the waist. It presented him with a problem. He could not bat them away because he was obliged to keep his paws concealed. He pondered a moment over what course to pursue..

He would yell at them, he decided. Give them a good scolding. He swelled his lungs with air and released a daunting roar; a drumming, curdling bass reverberating out. It filled the amphitheatre and ricocheted upon its walls, an uncontainable whirlwind of ferocity. The sound filled their ears: the eruption of a mountain, rendering of a stone, shattering of metal; the crashing of a wave upon a cliff. It consumed them. They dropped to the ground vomiting from their quivering stomachs, refuse spitting from their nostrils. One by one each rose on buckling knees and fled, clawing shakily up the stands in harried retreat.

“Are ya all right, son?” spoke Leobold turning around and looking convivially down at the young man. Gob-full pools of syrup looked back, unbothered, as though the young man had been lounging and only now elected to rise.

“Your voice! By all the gods where did you learn such oration?” 

“Well gosh,” Leobold replied awkwardly, “It just somethin’ Aah can do.”

“Praise the favor shown to you then and dearest gratitude for your assistance. “Pray well that you scared them off. It is hot today and I am glad to not have fought, for this is my only tunic and I would have sweat profusely. I am Nikeratos.”

“Good ta meet ya, Nike. Aah’m Leo.”

They did not remain to search the stage. Nikeratos said he feared his accosters would return with a proper mob, or perhaps even polis guards. His mask was buried beneath a wild infusion of stage articles all mashed into a motley menagerie of quick-saved chaos. To retrieve it would take time.

Behind the stage the land graded down to the cliff-shore. It was not overly far as to remove them from easily returning to the polis, but was distant enough where they would not be seen from the amphitheatre. They walked through the caressing grass to the seaside. The high tide chaffed at the wall in a steady pounding melody. The wind was mild and cool, ruffling Leobold’s mane and tinging it with salt. They sat on the ridge together and looked at the gull-sky.

“Sure I am too hen-pecked by my mistress, wine, to have worked so long in Meletian theatre and never known so skilled a speaker.”

“Aah only just arrived here today.”

“From where did you come?”

“A place called Faerûn. It’s on Toril.”

Nikeratos stared fixedly up at Leobold, black specks of pupil washed over in his amber gaze. “Where is that?” he asked.

Leobold thought for a moment. Toril was… it was just where it was. And Faerûn was on it. “It’s uh, well it’s in the Material Plane.”

Nikeratos squinted.

“It’s like a whole different world from here. It’s like, suppose we came from the moon ta here, only we came from another place even farther off.”

“Who is we?”

“Mah friends and Aah. Canie and Bel.”

“Are you of the gods?”

“Aah don’t think so, we just got kinda lost. Aah was supposed to go out and figure out somethin’ of where we are. Could Aah ask you about this here place?”

The polis was called Meletis, Nikeratos explained. Leobold politely refrained from disclosing that he knew so much already. It was one of three great states in Theros, the name of their world. Akros was to the northwest and Setessa to the northeast. Nikeratos was an actor, he explained. Poets adapted famous legends, tales of heroes and distant histories of war. There were never more than three actors in a play, that was a sacred rule. There could be more than three characters as often there were, but only three might be on stage at a time. That only occurred during moments of extreme tension. They wore dramatic masks with exaggerated expressions to denote the different characters and orated their lines in sonorous voices while facing the audience. Plays had been a staple of Meletian culture for generations.

“Twice have I portrayed Agnomakhos the archon in the tragedy by Agathon and claimed first prize at festivals. Epicharmus wrote six comedies specifically for my talents.”

“Why is tha theatre closed then?”

“Rhinton wrote a tragedy on the murder of Daxos of Meletis, an oft dramatized subject. The story has been overplayed to be mundane, but the audience gorges on the pathos of their native hero slain by his lover. But he based it on an obscure history he claimed to have read which was sympathetic to Elspeth the Heresiarch. If she is villain no more then Ajani Vengeant’s retribution is less heroic.”

“Ahjonny Vengeance?”

“Ajani Vengeant, Heliod’s champion. Solsemon raged against the drama as vile blasphemy. Warned that the wrath of the gods would be brought down on Meletis. That Heliod would smite us all into the ocean as he did Olantin. That we were all acolytes of Phenax. Our articles were stored beneath the stage to save from thievery, but may well that zealots will set the thing alight and burn it all.”


End file.
